


and our bed is verdant

by NaroMoreau



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Priests, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Fingering, Blasphemy, Denial of Feelings, Drinking, Drunk Sex, Frottage, Hopeful Ending, Inspired by Art, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Priest Aziraphale (Good Omens), Priest Crowley (Good Omens), Sleepy Cuddles, Touch-Starved Aziraphale (Good Omens), but not entirely, tipsy sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29460096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau
Summary: It's been a long time since Father Aziraphale Fell has been able to sleep soundly. Too many nightmares, too many thoughts.Luckily for him, Father Anthony Crowley knows him better than he realizes.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 84
Kudos: 293
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs, Society for the Promotion of Underappreciated Sex Acts (Good Omens Local 666)





	and our bed is verdant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gayforgoodomens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gayforgoodomens/gifts).



> So a while back I saw gayforgoodomens posted amazing priests art and now, I'm finally giving in to my desire to write for it and here it is and I want to thank Gayforgoodomens for allowing me to do it! MORE PRIESTS!
> 
> Many thanks to [hanap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap), [divinehedonism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/divinehedonism/pseuds/divinehedonism), [Phantomstardemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomstardemon/pseuds/Phantomstardemon) and [Nadzieja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadzieja/pseuds/Nadzieja) for all the cheering and to [TawnyOwl95](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TawnyOwl95/pseuds/TawnyOwl95) and [Hatknitter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HatKnitter) for the beta!

It's cold. Unusually so. 

It seems to leak from the curtains, from the hardwood. Sweeping up the sofa, swirling around Aziraphale’s whole self. 

Wisps of chill air bear on his skin, and he pulls at his neck, at the collar digging a line over his pulse spot. 

It's in moments like these when Aziraphale can't stop thinking about his childhood. Those improbable flashes of a ghostly touch where his mother's hand used to curve around his cheek. The warmth. The weight. The comfort of her nearness on starless nights. 

He knows he shouldn't be feeling like this, shouldn't be thinking like this, as if he had lost something on the way. Aziraphale is already toeing his forties, looking across the horizon at his fifties, and at this point it's too late to harbor regrets. 

Aziraphale blinks, fights back the urge to curl up into himself, to hide from the tide of his own thoughts. He's usually good at not-thinking. His work makes it necessary. He wouldn't be as successful a priest if he let doubt to sink in. He has his faith to fill those spaces, to cover the things he can't explain. The things he doesn't want to face.

It must be the wine, he considers. Sweet, scented, already heavy in his veins, thick on his tongue, and two bottles too many. Dragging him down to that place that festers, empty, behind his ribs. 

Where God used to be.

"Hey, Angel, something wrong?"

Aziraphale stares at Father Crowley,  _ just Crowley _ , sitting sprawled over the Chesterfield, eyes drunk-hazed, and he feels that odd, unfamiliar thing that winds tightly around his heart. 

It's curious, how a space no wider than a coffee table can feel like miles when you can't,  _ shouldn't _ , touch the man across from you. 

When you shouldn't want to. Though it's understandable, perhaps. Forbidden things pull and beckon harder. 

Yes, Aziraphale is sure there's nothing wrong in it. 

He clears his throat. "Yes, of course, my dear. Everything is t-"

"Do not," Crowley interjects, weaving a finger in front of Aziraphale's face, "say tickety boo."

"W- why not?"

"'Cause this isn't an Austen novel. And besides, that's like your pop-off-the-mouth answer." Crowley straightens slightly, sparing a glance at Aziraphale over the line of his sunglasses. "C'mon, what's going on? I can see something's eating you up." 

Aziraphale sighs. A low, drawn, tight thing. "I’m not sleeping much these days." He takes a sip of his wine, watches the ceiling with its hairline fractures in the plaster. It's easier like this, somehow. Let the words tumble out half-slurred, alcohol-stained. "I've been having nightmares, if I'm quite honest."

"Oh?"

"Yes, quite."

"'Bout?"

Choking walls. White and empty. A single crucifix beyond Aziraphale's reach in his room. No one to touch. No one to cling to. 

Aziraphale's eyes swivel down to his hands. He toys with his ring. "Being alone, I suppose."

Crowley nods, the lines around his mouth shifting while his lips part, his brows crease. Understanding, silent, and comforting. It works better than spoken reassurances. 

"Isn't it a bit much, sometimes?" Aziraphale drinks the last dregs from his glass, swallows with a gulp. "I was, uh, I was wondering when the last time was that I actually touched someone."

"Wasn't that today, when Tracy brought you your scones and palmed you on the shoulder?"

Aziraphale chuckles at that, watching the way Crowley's lips slant into a smile of his own. The sight is always enough to make Aziraphale struggle to bank the blazing fire under his skin. 

"You know what I mean," Aziraphale whispers. "It's not– It's not the same."

"No, I get it, Angel. ‘Course it's not."

Crowley tilts his face up, flushed and lovely, looks directly at Aziraphale over the rim of his shades. 

It's arresting. 

The world goes quiet, and Aziraphale floats in the stillness of the seconds before words are spoken.  _ Because even a fool, when he keeps silent, might be considered wise. _

And Aziraphale knows he's a fool for wanting Crowley like that, even for a second. Even if it's only natural, he thinks. After all, he doesn't have anyone else. He watches the way Crowley's hands curl around his own glass, around a clothed knee, and he feels the urge to press into their grasp. His eyes rest heavily on Crowley's face, on his cheeks, on his lips.

There's fire licking at his insides, smoke in his throat, and he has said too much already.

"I'm afraid it's quite late," Aziraphale grates out. He levers himself up, struggling to find his balance, the wine swirling like tar in his brain. "I'm exhausted. I'll see you tomorrow."

Crowley instantly puts his glass down, scrambles to his feet. "You okay, though?"

"Perfectly. Don’t worry about it."

Aziraphale turns on his feet and presses his loafers against the floor, hard enough to avoid swaying elsewhere. 

* * *

There's just so much that darkness can hide. 

Aziraphale gives up on sleep after the umpteenth toss and turn on the sheets that now are tangled in a mess around his body. He tries to set them to rights. 

He sits up on the bed, trying to ignore the drunken haze lingering in his temples, at the back of his skull, and pulls at the blankets until they're in less of a disarray. He's about to lie back down when he catches movement, in the corner of his eye, at his door. 

Aziraphale's heart seizes, beats as if to shatter, strums under his breastbone at the shadow cast on the floor, at the serene lines standing on the threshold.

It's only Crowley. An unusually small shirt and trousers hug his slender frame. 

He looks so different like this. Younger, perhaps. Less strained, more real. The potential of a life not yet swallowed by the black of their vestments shines brightly in the red of his hair. 

Even in this moment, set in greyscale.

It's dark enough that Aziraphale can't see his face, and the fact stings a bit. He misses Crowley's eyes. 

"Couldn't sleep, could you?" Crowley leans against the jamb, arms crossed. There's something to be said about how well Crowley knows him. They might not talk for a while, might well be apart, and yet Crowley always  _ sees _ him. 

Aziraphale desperately needs to set eyes on his face. 

"Ah, I'm afraid that's true," he rasps, as if the collar were squeezing out the sounds. If he were still wearing it, that was. 

A low chuckle, "Yeah, me neither. Bit of a hassle. Gotta rest for tomorrow's morning Mass."

There's something odd about this, as if they had both fallen into a hollow where things didn't run the usual course. Where Crowley can stand in his room and ask about Aziraphale's thoughts. A mental jigsaw puzzle. 

And it slides into place. Crowley is also awake. Tired and still heavy from the wine, if his voice is anything to go by.

The tentative question that has drilled to the front of Aziraphale's mind spills forth, "And what's keeping you awake?"

"Bad dreams. Mainly. Some nasty thoughts." Aziraphale can see the elegant shrug of Crowley's shoulders. "We can keep talking, if you want," Crowley offers, nonchalantly generous. "It might help you sleep."

Aziraphale shouldn't. He knows he shouldn't. But something in his chest loosens at the promise of nearness. Of Crowley's touch, even if it's just an inadvertent graze. The fire that’s always roaring inside him whenever Crowley's close threatens to set him ablaze, and his _no_ ebbs, flowing away. 

He lets himself fall back onto the mattress.

"Of course," Aziraphale roughs out. There's something in his throat that might be the wine. Might be his own eagerness pushing up. "That sounds like an excellent idea."

Crowley saunters to the edge of the bed with a sway of hips that Aziraphale shouldn't notice as much as he does. When his legs brush the mattress, Aziraphale looks at him, and sees him flush, pink stealing under the freckles of his cheeks. Painfully beautiful. 

The line of Crowley's waistband hangs low on his hip bones, low enough that Aziraphale can glimpse a dusting of red hair on the run off of his stomach. The need to touch him sits heavily on Aziraphale's hands. But he doesn't. He wonders if the Lord approves his sacrifice. He wonders if the Lord even notices it. 

"Scoot," Crowley says. 

And Aziraphale shouldn't, but he does anyway, because not doing it feels wrong. He scoots back on the mattress to leave the edge clear.

Crowley sits, his feet still on the floor, and the mattress tilts slightly. 

"Have you thought about telling Tracy she should stop buying the wrong jam?"

It takes Aziraphale the pulse of a few seconds to follow. Because there's something decidedly dreamlike about talking about jam at three in the morning.

Familiar, nonetheless.

"In all honesty, my dear," and the words seem to almost stick to his palate, to his tongue, "it isn't the  _ wrong _ jam."

"Only one that you stubbornly–"

"Adamantly," Aziraphale corrects.

" _ Ridiculously _ ," Crowley says, "refuse to taste."

"Well, I have standards." Aziraphale fusses with his own shirt, runs his fingers through his hair. He yawns, despite himself. "It's hardly my fault that not all manufacturers are sustainable."

"Angel, you fussy bastard."

Aziraphale huffs a laugh, something in his limbs fizzling out. He feels unmoored, adrift, swaying like a lost boat towards Crowley.

So when Crowley says, "It's cold," Aziraphale doesn't think to do anything but rearrange himself on the mattress, peeling the covers back for Crowley to slide in next to him. 

Instinctive. He can't let Crowley suffer cold, he thinks. He can't let Crowley suffer at all. 

"Of course it's cold," Aziraphale says, but it feels as if someone else is talking. Moving in his lungs. The whole of reality petering out, with every heavy sigh that masks yet another yawn. "It's midwinter."

Crowley sprawls liquid next to him, instantly seeking him. Seeking a warm body, Aziraphale thinks. There's nothing, no one else, in this bed after all. 

It's terribly cold above the eiderdown.

He can smell the fresh scent of Crowley's shampoo, cedar and mint, and he can feel the warmth that bleeds through Crowley's shirt and into his skin. A short, broken burst of air rushes out of Aziraphale's lips when he realizes the way the lithe curve of Crowley's body is pressed up against him, so sweetly. So  _ right _ . Their legs tangled, Crowley's slender neck gently resting over one of Aziraphale's arms, an arm he has claimed as a pillow. 

"Feels good," Crowley babbles, not entirely awake. Pressing,  _ pressing _ , a squirming roll of hips, his lips now damp on Aziraphale's throat. "'S nice."

The mattress is warm. The room, airless. And the daze of sleepless nights is slowly digging into Aziraphale, and he feels like sinking into the mattress, the weight of Crowley's body very much needed against him. 

It does feel  _ good _ . 

"I daresay," Aziraphale drawls, softly, a bit breathless, "we both really need a good night's sleep."

Aziraphale tilts his head, the underside of his jaw tickled by Crowley's silky-soft red hair. There's some tightness around his chest, and his face feels hot, despite the gentle snow falling outside. But the bed is soft, and Crowley fits so well in his arms, Aziraphale's hands finding their way to the trim line of Crowley's waist, to the flare of his hip. Curling his fingers over the cotton shirt. 

Aziraphale can't stop noticing how his thumbs brush, having Crowley almost completely enveloped by his armspan. 

He's achingly small. 

"Look h'w well you fit here," Aziraphale whispers, half his vocals gone by the sleep-daze. "You c'uld stay in my arms forever."

"I m'ght," Crowley hums, low, while Aziraphale tries to register the way Crowley's thigh is pushing against his bollocks. 

And he knows, vaguely, he should feel conscientious about the fact that his cock is stirring in his pyjama bottoms, while his hand coasts the strip of smooth skin along Crowley's lower back, his thumb pressing gently in where he suspects those tantalizing dimples are.

It's a brash spark of heat in the cold, like a fire struck with a flint, and it lingers and drags and sinks, heavy in Aziraphale's stomach, because Crowley laces their fingers together and guides Aziraphale’s hand past the waistband of his trousers.

He isn't wearing pants. 

Aziraphale's lashes flutter over his tired eyes, and the wine is still somewhat coursing through his veins. This must be why heat is blowing up inside him. 

Aziraphale traces the sharp jut of those narrow hip bones, curving his palm over the pert swell of Crowley's arse, and he knows he's soaking himself with precome, his cock aching, while he finds that his handspan is perfect to squeeze the round muscle of a buttock.

"So beautiful," Aziraphale murmurs, hoarse, his breath hot in his mouth. Solomon had the right words. He whispers, slurrs, "Behold you're beautiful, my darling, indeed  _ our _ bed's verdant."

It's said with more air than words, thick and low, his own hips making indulgent rocks against Crowley's leg.

And Aziraphale knows there's a snarled-up line being pushed forward, or pulled back, but then he kneads the flesh of an arsecheek and Crowley's mouth pushes against his neck. A small, muffled whine rips through the silence.

This is how it should be.

It's alright. After so long without contact, this was bound to happen, and when Crowley starts grinding against him, his hot, hard cock insistent in every push, Aziraphale knows there's nothing he wouldn't give him.

He can barely make out the edges of the things in his room. Everything is pitch dark.

His hand drifts to Crowley's crease, his heart pounding while he feels as if he’s breathing under water. Aziraphale slides a finger between Crowley's buttocks, slowly easing into the tight resistance of his arse. And his hand feels too rough, his fingers too thick for breaching into that hot space, until the tip of his index finger reaches the furl of Crowley's rim. 

Aziraphale jolts awake. 

There's no denying how his finger catches a little on the whorled muscle before slipping inside, slipping easily into the tight give of his arsehole. Where Crowley's slick-hot and  _ already _ open. 

It strikes Aziraphale like a lorry, because this bit, this off-set path, isn't part of a washed-out dream. And he should pull away, add some distance now that the starlight has faded. But the way Crowley stifles a whimper in his neck and rolls his hips, taking his finger deeper, clenching around him with a moan, makes Aziraphale decide against it.

"C-Crowley?" And the question packs in the whole breadth of Aziraphale's shock. 

"Mmm." Crowley's lips part, brushing wet against his neck. "Played a bit with m'self. Nothin' wrong with that."

And no, there can be nothing wrong with that. With pleasuring the body the Lord has given them. There can be nothing wrong with this.  _ This _ , in his room so silent, the sacred stillness of a sanctum, almost.

Aziraphale's own cock, past the point of aching, jerks inside his trousers. He thrusts his finger gently, and the second one slips inside Crowley, still without any resistance, his body yielding to Aziraphale with stifled whimpers, as if made to take him. As if made for this.

There are many sins he can name from this moment, but none rings as true as the greed inside him. Because Crowley pushes back, practically fucking himself wide, lax, and sloppy on Aziraphale's fingers, his whines and whimpers rumbling on Aziraphale's neck. And Aziraphale can't deter the idea of how much, how desperately he wants to sink his cock into that blinding heat. Fuck Crowley hard, slow, split him open with every pound, watching the flow of his back arching each time Aziraphale would bury sweetly in his body. And once he felt close, if he spilled deep enough, perhaps his come wouldn't leak out of Crowley. 

Wouldn't stain the sheets, wouldn't stain their souls.

It's unbecoming, he knows, but it's also natural. Feels as liberating as breathing. 

_ Let us do good to everyone, and especially to those who are of the household of faith. _

And Aziraphale knows he's doing good, and Crowley's faith is still bright. He deserves to get what he wants. 

" _ 'Ziraphale _ ."

It's a groan, a pleading lilt, while his hands grip Aziraphale's shirt in blanched fists. 

"It's alright, my darling, I've got you," Aziraphale chokes on the air, words crushed on Crowley's hair. Breathing him in. Sweat lacing with the clean edge of mint. "Let go."

_ Open for me, my love, my dove, my undefiled, _ Aziraphale prays, stuffing his fingers deeper inside Crowley, making him gasp.  _ Open for me _ . 

But in an instant, Crowley breaks free from his grasp, from his slicked fingers, and turns around. 

His trousers are still pushed low, the waistband under the curve of his arse, leaving it bare. 

"Hold me," Crowley rasps, arching, rubbing his bum against the slick-hot shape of Aziraphale's cock. "'S cold."

And Aziraphale would never deny him. 

He turns on his side, and groans when his clothed erection presses against Crowley's naked arse more firmly. Insistent. 

Where he's open, slick, tight and hot. Ready to take him. It would mean no more than a swift pull of his trousers low and a single, slow thrust into that welcoming body. 

But he won't, because this is unbefitting. There are vows that prevent that. 

There's nothing to stop him from offering comfort instead, though. And when Aziraphale grinds, rocks his hips forward, Crowley throws his head back with a throaty groan. It's overwhelming. Aziraphale buries his nose in Crowley's hair to drink better the smell of him, relish this moment, this sacrament.

He laces an arm around Crowley's waist, his palm cupping the rock hard erection at the front of his trousers, stroking him through the cloth. Urgently, the ripples of pleasure in Crowley's body egg him on. And Crowley moans, a broken, shy thing that makes Aziraphale know he won't stop. 

Can't stop. 

Crowley deserves everything. 

And when Crowley's thready exhales grow stronger, all of him so pliant, so warm, – so  _ beautiful _ – Aziraphale feels that tight heat unraveling at the base of his spine, fanning out to his limbs. 

His cock pulses, throbs each time it nestles in the soft crease of Crowley's arse with each pound of his hips, until he ruts one last, merciless time and spills in his trousers. Tacky, wet and blessed. 

It doesn't take more than a few more squeezes before Crowley's coming with a strained, shivery moan that rumbles through his chest, and reaches Aziraphale's heart that beats wildly.

Madly.

_ In love _ . 

The haze of Aziraphale's orgasm eddies away, but his whole body feels numb, shattered under the peace of being where he's supposed to.

Next to Crowley in their unconcerned bliss.

And he knows it won't be long before Crowley levers up from the bed and dashes away. After all, they both need to clean themselves. But he intends to soak in every drop of this intimate, personal closeness for as long as he can. 

In the peace of knowing himself loved, in love, safe in God's embrace as well. 

His heart is full, and big enough, in the certainty that he will never have to choose. 

Aziraphale will always love them both. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hmu on [Tumblr](https://naromoreau.tumblr.com/) <3  
> Or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/xenoscientist/)


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